


or this precious cup forget

by jazzfic



Category: Star Trek: Picard
Genre: Background Relationships, Developing Friendships, Fandompotluck, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25440460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzfic/pseuds/jazzfic
Summary: All Picard wants is to be left to his tea. The crew and ship, though, are not helping.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38
Collections: Star Trek Fandom Potluck Collection





	or this precious cup forget

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Star Trek Fandom Potluck. Inspired by the dregs of many a drink left untouched.

_On the nature of distraction: namely, how many times can a situation repeat itself before even the mildest of tempers reaches its thinnest edge._

_The question is mostly rhetorical, but the answer, it turns out, is always the same. Take all occurrences so far, and add one. Just one._

_The fact that this number happens to align neatly with the crew compliment of a certain speed freighter is entirely coincidental..._

-

Picard stood before the replicator, thumbing in the familiar order: _Tea, earl grey, hot._

“JL!”

He turned towards the voice, trying to hide how little he appreciated being barked at with as bland an expression as possible. Overwhelm them with politeness and one day, he hoped, one day it might just wear off. “Yes, Raffi. How can I help?”

Not that it had ever really worked with this one, though. 

Raffi strode across the mess. “Have you seen it?” She thrust the PADD in front of him. “This is some kind of joke, right?”

Picard sighed, putting his tea down on the nearest table. He parsed the text and waved a hand dismissively. “Haven’t we better things to be concerning ourselves with than whether my name is attached to a building or not?”

“But they’re naming that library after Anjju! A Bolian more concerned with the state of his silk pyjamas than any damned notions of diplomacy.”

“He’s done a lot of hard work with what many would consider very dull matters. And the naming committee, I assure you, base their decisions on criteria that are slightly less frivolous than one’s personal wardrobe, Raffi. Now, if you’ll excuse me...” He picked up the tea.

She reached out to touch his forearm, her eyes immediately apologetic. The fragrant steam rose temptingly to his nose. He put the cup down again. 

“I’m sorry, JL. Years of, well, not to be blunt, but...”

“Simmering hate at my good name and all that it implies?” Picard supplied, with a slight smile.

“Something like that. But it’s left me feeling like some sort of contortionist trying to make things right again. Like this--” She nodded at the PADD, pressing one hand to her neck in the way he’d long recognised in Raffi when she was trying to sort out a tangle of thoughts. “I don’t know. It’s like I’m bending backwards over myself.”

He gave her a kind look. “You and me both.”

She sighed. “Better things to be worrying about, hey?”

“Much better.”

“Okay.” She stood and gestured to the table. “I’ll take my simmering hate-turned-into-hopeless-pandering and slink away. Enjoy your tea.”

Picard watched her leave. He marvelled at how that particular energy of Raffi’s could return as quickly as it could deflate. It was not the first time and he imagined it would not be the last. 

He lifted the cup and took a sip. 

Cold. 

“Damn it,” he said.

-

Picard stood before the replicator, thumbing in the familiar order: _Tea, earl grey, hot._

Heavy footsteps fell into the room, accompanied by a long string of expletives. It was Rios, his dark eyes glowering. Picard let the man simmer; in between the usual Spanish he was able to discern what sounded like a few choice utterances in Klingon. He recognised that bristling aura of frustration all too well.

“Captain’s problems?” he asked, taking a seat and placing the cup down.

Rios forked a hand through his hair, leaving it styled not uninterestingly in several directions. He jabbed a finger in the direction of the bridge. “I swear, if those kids crash us into an asteroid belt, I’m washing my hands of this whole thing. Beam me to Freecloud, Deep Space One Hundred and Eleven, the last Orion outpost in all its debauched ruin, I don’t care! This ship and all of you in it can go rust.” 

“I thought Soji was becoming quite a good pilot,” said Picard. He crossed his arms, hiding his amusement as Rios paced between the tables. It wasn’t a particularly large space and he wasn’t getting very far. “Extremely adept, in fact.”

“Oh, sure, she’s a real celestial talent. She’s at one with the goddamn stars. But the other kid... not so much.”

“Well, Elnor is very enthusiastic. You just need to syphon that enthusiasm into a more productive outlet.”

Rios wasn’t listening. He’d stopped pacing and was gazing with distraction at Picard. Or, more precisely, at Picard’s head.

“You...” He broke off and drew a hand over his beard. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but, you had, um. You had... hair, once, right?”

“You’re asking me if I worried myself into a non-existent hairline because of an endlessly stressful job in the big chair, aren’t you? My goodness, we really are a group of contrarians when it comes to the tough personal questions...” Picard sighed and touched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I know it’s been a while since you’ve had an actual crew, Rios, but I really don’t think you need to worry about losing your hair quite yet. You’ve got a natural advantage there, for a start. If I were forty years younger I’d even go so far as to call it an unfair one.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And learn to take a compliment, man, please. I don’t give them out to just anyone.” 

Rios rolled his eyes at this, but a slight smile made its way onto his face. He tipped a finger at Picard, who took the gesture of thanks for what it was and nodded in return, and with that La Sirena’s captain made his way back up the stairs. 

The quiet of the mess surrounded him once again. He lost himself in it for a moment, thinking of ships and crews and past responsibilities, settling arguments and conflicts, the peace of agreements made. Then he sat up out of his reverie, his eyes falling to the cup.

He took a sip. 

Cold. 

“Damn it,” he said, softly.

-

Picard stood before the replicator, thumbing in the familiar order: _Tea, earl grey, hot._

There was a yawn at his side. Agnes Jurati offered a small smile, stretching her arms. It was the movement of a newly woken cat, snugly at peace and wholly satisfied with its place in the world. He was struck at just how well it looked on her.

“A good night’s sleep, I take it?”

“Mm, very.” She noticed his raised eyebrows and shrank a little. “I mean... yes it was, thank you. Sorry.”

Picard sat down. He watched as she tapped buttons and gathered into both hands a mug approximately the size of her head and full to the brim with something frothy. Eyes closed, she took a taste, then slipped into the seat opposite him. 

“Don’t apologise, Doctor. When it comes to sleep, you take what you can, when you can. Out here, you learn to appreciate it.”

Agnes nodded, smiling brightly.

“And as to the rest,” Picard continued, with some hesitation, “well... I hope that helps, too.”

The smile froze. A beat, then, “Did you know bergamot comes from _bey armudu_ , the prince of pears?” said Agnes in a loud voice. She reached across and took the cup from his hands, staring at its contents with a frantic intensity. “I mean, the word. Not the oil. Etymology is ridiculously fascinating. I prefer earl grey with a splash of milk myself, but it’s lovely either way. Here you go.” And she shoved it back towards him.

“Yes, I was aware...” Picard steadied the rattling cup before the tabletop became a lake of tea. “But thank you for the reminder. It’s always good to appreciate the story behind the things we take for granted.”

Agnes blinked several times and busied herself with draining the contents of the very large mug. “I guess it is,” she said, after a bit.

They fell into silence. He supposed this was another conversational blunder he was going to have to add to the odd mess he was accumulating. There seemed to be a never ending stream of them. He thought of attempting an apology but decided that would almost definitely make things worse, and when it came down to it, was one really necessary? He might be somewhat set in his ways, but he wasn’t entirely blinkered. It was obvious that the crew of La Sirena had taken certain routes regarding inter-ship relationships, and the more overtly these were hidden under his nose, the more he was beginning to notice. 

And here he was thinking Elnor to be the purveyor of Absolute Candour. Picard was feeling more than a touch of it right now. 

He had to remind himself, not for the first time, that this wasn’t his old remit; this wasn’t the lay of Starfleet rules and regulations. He wasn’t about to haul, for example, Raffi and Seven into the holo-chateau for a dressing down (the thought alone – terrifying!). And he wasn’t going to outright _say_ to the leading expert on cybernetics, who was now blushing furiously into her frothy sweetened beverage, the fact that he just happened to notice that she was happy, and he was happy for her. He wouldn’t put it past Rios to ‘accidentally’ lock him in the holodeck for an hour or two as some sort of payback. 

No, it seemed that saying nothing was the better course. Let these young people blunder about and play games like an old-fashioned farce. At least it was amusing. 

“Okay, then!” Agnes jumped up and all but threw the mug into the reclaimer. “I’d better, um.” She gestured towards the sickbay. He waved her away with a sigh.

“Yes, Doctor. Go on.”

Back to the world he was becoming increasingly familiar with, alone again as ever, Picard looked down at his tea.

Cold. 

“Damn it.” 

-

Picard stood before the replicator, thumbing in the familiar order: _Tea, earl grey, hot._

“There are a lot of extremely dumb rules on this ship,” came a small voice behind him. “Captain Rios must have been very bored in all his alone time out here.”

Soji’s arms were folded across her middle, not tightly, not in agitation, but as if she were lost. She made no move to the drinks replicator when he stepped aside, though it appeared to be this object at which she was directing her grievance. 

Picard gave her a moment then said, “Rules are there for a reason.” She shot him a look and he added, “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“And while I suspect you might find it quicker to do things your own way, despite this not being a Starfleet vessel, there is a hierarchy here. And if the captain says you can’t do something, you need to respect that, and listen.”

There was a flash in her eyes, quick, reactionary. “I am listening. I _do_ listen. It’s just...”

Picard waited.

Soji sighed. Her arms dropped. She sat down and said, “Sometimes Captain Rios looks at me, and... it’s not only him, there’s this look you all share. Admiral Picard, I know I’m being reasonable. I’m not some kid picking a fight.” Here off his raised brows she rolled her eyes. “It’s as if you’re all worried that I’m going to fly us through a sun because _obviously_ I’m talking to La Sirena machine to machine and I just happen to know a way in that won’t turn us into a fireball!”

There was that word again. Picard took a seat, watching her carefully. “Those are a lot of presumptions I’m hearing, Soji.”

She gave him a perfect, ramrod stare, though the challenge in her clear eyes wavered, just a fraction. He wondered if it was doubt. 

“Did you find on the Artifact that you were able to do much of what you wanted?” he asked, gently.

“Eventually, yes. I wasn’t going about brazenly breaking rules, through.”

“But you got a lot of what you asked for.” She nodded and Picard spread his hands onto the table. “Please understand me, I don’t want to bring up that place, knowing how it ended for you. But what I’m trying to say – badly, as it turns out – is you’re incredibly intelligent, Soji. Far beyond any of us, and I don’t state that lightly. I know Captain Rios thinks very highly of you. He just has a particular way of communicating it. Making sure that you follow the very important rules needed to run a ship tells me that he puts a lot of trust in you, for a start. You and Elnor.”

This, at least, made her smile. “I don’t know. The other day he practically exploded into a giant cigar-chomping stress ball and threatened to assign Emmet as Elnor’s twenty-four hour babysitter. I had to get Dr. Jurati so she could calm him down before it became one of those ‘choose to live’ situations, except with Rios holding the sword.”

“Sounds like quite the commotion.” Picard thought for a moment, then frowned. “Where was I during all of this?”

“I think you were... taking a nap,” said Soji.

“Oh. Well, important work, then.”

A voice drifted down from the upper level. “What important work?”

They looked up. Elnor was leaning on the railings, his long hair falling against the bars. Picard gave a small wave. “Nothing, Elnor. What are you doing?”

“Waiting for her. We’re supposed to be practising plotting navigational arrays. Enoch says he has a window of nine minutes and four seconds in his diary today, but we have to be careful because if the captain finds out he’s been teaching us the ways of the holograms he’ll be slowed down to half speed for a month. He tells me this doesn’t affect his skill-set, but it does slightly lessen his ability to deliver a joke.” 

Picard glanced at Soji. “Emergency holograms have diaries?” he asked quietly.

“And stand up routines too, apparently.” She shrugged, and in a clearer voice said, “Sorry, Elnor. On my way.” 

Soji stood and headed for the stairs. Before stepping onto them she turned back, looking him over. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“I meant what I said,” said Picard. “And Soji?” 

“Yes?”

“If we’re ever going to fly through a sun because you just happen to know a way in that won’t turn us into a fireball... you will give a moment’s warning, won’t you?”

She tipped her head to one side. “I’ll think about it.” And she climbed up, disappearing out of sight. In the distance he could hear the ENH’s sing-song brogue, a point being made and Elnor responding, softer and questioning. 

That movement, he thought. That look. It was so like Data, but in another way, a way he was grateful for, at the same time it was entirely her. Something she would grow into.

He picked up the cup, musing on what sort of future that might be. Would it be a turbulent one, perhaps, unimaginable from now. Would it be improved, sharpened in hope, too fantastic to believe, or...

Cold. That’s all. It would just be very, very cold.

“Damn it.”

-

Picard stood before the replicator, thumbing in the familiar order: _Tea, earl grey, hot._

“I had a captain once who favoured coffee. The stronger the better. I recall thinking that it must have been gravely essential to her well-being, like needing oxygen to breathe.”

He turned. Seven of Nine was looking down at the tea in his hands, a slight smile on her lips. 

“That sounds like an exaggeration,” she went on, “but from what I remember the days she went without, or more accurately, the days when the replicators failed and the only alternative was Neelix’s attempt at a version brewed out of some fungus he’d found growing on the walls of the hydroponics lab, her... shall we say, operational levels... were less than optimum.”

“In so many words,” said Picard.

“Yes. In so many words.”

He sat down. After a second or two she took the opposite seat. The metal threaded over her fingers glinted in the light. He observed the restlessness with which she curled and uncurled them, pressing into the table.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked eventually, gesturing to the replicator.

“No, I’ve been up for too long, I’m about to turn in, actually.” Seven shook her head. “But thank you.”

“I sometimes wonder if it’s a crutch,” said Picard, glancing down at the tea. “I’m sure Kathryn Janeway thought the same. And it’s not just a command thing, I assure you. We’re so fragile that we stumble from sleep reaching for our however many milligrams of caffeine before we feel our ability to cognitively function at, as you rightly observed, our optimum.” He shrugged. “I did my best to wean myself off the caffeinated part, at least. So I suppose it’s not just chemicals.”

“What do you think it is, then? Familiarity?”

“Of course.” Picard hid a smile. “Familiarity, the comfort of mundane things... making a home when a home feels very far away. Either that, or just something hot to warm old hands back to life.”

Seven frowned. “The ship’s atmospherics are stable. Are you experiencing circulation issues with the--” She broke off, awkwardly. 

“The golum?” he supplied, brows raised. He so rarely caught her flustered. It was an interesting observance.

“Well...”

“Both it and I are perfectly fine. Dr. Jurati did, and continues to do, an excellent job.”

She eyed him sceptically, then gave a short chuckle, shaking her head. “All very sanguine, Picard. You’re absolutely you.”

“Thank you for noticing.”

Seven stood. “You and your tea,” she added, under her breath. But there was a kindness in her eyes, familiar amidst the teasing. He welcomed both; it was a change from the old Seven, to be relaxed enough to poke him now in this way. He had an urge to tell her how it gladdened and reassured him, though words, as he was coming to realise with this crew, did not always work as intended. 

He watched from the table as she climbed the steps to the upper level, and took a long, slow breath, turning the cup in his hands. 

If only certain other things could warm him to the core. 

It was almost becoming cathartic. Almost. He’d sure as anything still prefer his dear, caffeinated, not caffeinated, whatever this was... he’d still prefer his beverage _of very personal choice_ to remain more than a minute at a temperature above that of the space outside! 

“Damn it,” he said, getting up again.

-

Picard stood before the replicator, thumbing in the familiar order: _Tea, earl grey, hot._

“Admiral!”

He looked up with a start, only to be met with a flurry of... was it stars? A rogue transporter beam? His imminent demise in the form of... confetti?

Small colourful shapes rained down around him. He stared wordlessly at the bringer of this sudden eddy, whose entire face was lit up like a bright sun.

“Admiral Picard! It’s today!” 

Slowly, Picard pried off a piece from where it was stuck to his lips. With as much calmness as he could muster and very much not wanting to know the answer, he asked, “Which is--?”

“Today! Is this not an important day?”

The calmness burst. “Elnor! _What_ important day?”

“Exactly six months in your wonderful new corporeal receptacle!”

“Oh, Elnor...”

“I’m confused. Are you not happy?” 

“No, I mean, yes, yes of course I’m happy. But don’t you think my so-called awakening and this extremely unimportant body shares today with a more crucial moment in our recent history?”

“Captain Rios warned me this would be your reaction,” grumbled Elnor, studying the remaining confetti in his hands. “I ought to throw this over _him_ , for having such a perceptive mind.”

“Well, I suggest you don’t. Unless you want to become familiar with the inside of a speed freighter’s airlock.”

Elnor trudged off.

Picard stared at the cup of tea, still in his hand. It looked like a small, becalmed ocean, covered in a jetsam of tiny stars. He sat down and very carefully fished out the pieces onto the table, recalling now the other night how he’d seen Elnor and two of the holograms, the ENH and the EEH, cutting out hundreds of paper shapes. It must have been all for this. Oh, dear.

Despite knowing what was to come, he took a sip anyway. 

Cold. 

“Damn it,” he sighed, to the sodden constellation.

-

Picard stood before the replicator, thumbing in the familiar order: _Tea, earl grey, hot._

He’d taken one step towards the table when La Sirena lurched hard to the side. Startled, he dropped the cup – there was a shudder as the ship righted itself, warning sirens blasting, then – 

“Sorry!” Soji called out, distantly.

Rios’s voice thundered from the back of the ship. “How many times do I have to tell you, _hija_ , you need to lock in the dampeners before you play freestick!” He stuck a cursory glance over the railings as he made his way past. “You okay down there? Don’t worry about that, the hologram will clear it up.”

Really, Picard was more angry at himself. Years of maintaining a steadfast and upright stance on bridges past had given him space-legs of iron, or so he’d thought. He sighed at the state of his trousers, the hem of one leg now darkened with cooling tea. 

He was still staring at the mess when the EHH blinked into existence behind him and tutted. 

“I think the words you’re looking for are _damn it_ , Admiral.”

-

Picard stood before the replicator, thumbing in the familiar order: _Tea, earl grey, hot._

“Hey, JL?”

He turned around, bracing himself. This time everyone was there. Raffi and Seven. Rios, Agnes and Soji. Elnor. Six sets of eyes, all trained on him, all waiting. 

The cup, so warm and inviting, trembled in his hands. He felt a resigned, tilting shift. He felt centuries old and weary to his bones. Oh, it must have an end. It must. Surely by now he’d paid this due. Would the universe and all its needs and grumblings and bright-eyed ideas and sudden stops and turbulences, would it not give him one moment of solitude?

“We were thinking--” began Raffi.

“No!” Picard held a hand up. “No, wait, please! All of you, just... wait.” He tried not to glare, he didn’t want to shout, truly he didn’t, but this was it. He had no choice. It was either fail once more to starve the pattern, or strike a new path. There was no in between. 

He brought the cup to his lips, and took a sip. 

There it was. That precious unity, tea and tired old man, the longest he’d had and the best he’d known.

He closed his eyes. 

“No more will I fall to that cruel cold fate, or this precious cup forget,” he said. 

(In the silence that followed, several voices coalesced together, at an increasing volume--

_“Has he lost it?”_ This from Raffi, worried as ever. _“He’s lost it, hasn’t he. Oh, god, the day has finally come.”_

_“Mm, I don’t think so.”_ There was Seven, unfazed. 

_“Admiral, is this pretending again? Are you playing as a statue?”_ Poor, dear Elnor.

_“Cris, help me grab him, he’s about to topple over!”_ This all in a rush from Agnes, voice trembling.

_“Easy, easy.”_ Rios was chuckling. 

_“No, he’s okay.”_ There was Soji, calmest of all. 

– and with a steady breath, Picard opened his eyes again.)

“Please,” he said. “Speak.”

He gestured to the table, for the conversation to begin. 

-

_Some might ask, why? Why reach for such ridiculous, overwrought sentimentality over a token of home, something that could be replicated countless times with the touch of a button. To which Jean-Luc Picard (former Admiral, retired, current status: trawling to places unknown in a small speed freighter, unregistered and unbound and reporting to exactly no-one) would quietly state that yes, these things were true. They were indeed ridiculous._

_But without them, the universe might forever stay an unwelcome place, and he in it, a stranger._

_Let aged dogs fight their battles with stomachs warmed. Let him have this, at least._


End file.
